


Under The Skin

by Lennelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Attempted Murder, Cursed Sam, Curses, Dissociation, Gen, Kidnapping, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Series, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 05:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8566384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lennelle/pseuds/Lennelle
Summary: Two weeks at the hands of a witch and Sam doesn't remember a second of it. In the days following his rescue Sam finds himself disappearing, blacking out for hours at a time.  There's a reason Sam was the one taken, there's a reason he doesn't remember, and there's a reason he's beginning to fade away.





	1. Prologue

Everything is red-raw and flayed inside of him. He can feel it. He can feel the interior of his lungs dislodge and make their way back up his gullet. He chokes and sputters like he's drowning, and maybe he is.

Sam blinks, teary-eyed. He can't see much through the blur. It's dark outside but the Impala is lit up. He's crammed in the back seat, the heavy weight of his father behind him, keeping him upright.

Sam swipes at his mouth and chin, glances at his hands. He'd expected a lot more blood than there is. He'd expected fountains of it, not a spattering of red mucus. It hurts so much.

"Dad?" Sam gasps, lungs crying for help.

"I'm here, Sammy." A large hand squeezes his bony shoulder and Sam reaches up to meet it, to make sure it's really there.

What happened? Sam wants to asks, but he's too busy trying to catch his breath. He feels it rising inside him again and the next moment he's heaving and choking and his chest is on fire.

"Come on, Dean," John mutters.

The fit slows and stops until he can almost breathe and Sam leans wearily back into his father's chest. He realises then how cold he is and he shudders. His feet are bare and his clothes are torn and filthy, he's sure they weren't like that a day ago. He blinks, tries to remember where exactly he was a day ago. John shifts behind him and wraps his leather jacket around Sam's shoulders. He strokes his hair clumsily and Sam realises his dad is scared.

"What... happened?" Sam asks, a heaving breath between words.

"Don't worry about that right now," John says. "Just try to breathe."

Sam shakes his head. There's a giant blank space leering at him. A chasm where the answers should be. Taunting him.

"I don't remember - " Sam begins, but he's cut off by hacking coughs. John holds him steady.

"I know you don't," he says. "You'll be okay, Sam. You'll be fine. Dean's going to fix this."

Sam wants to ask why Dean isn't here and why Dad isn't the one off killing whatever's doing this, because that's how these things usually go. He glances up and sees the skin-whitening fear on his father's face, and he decides it's best not to question it.

Still, Sam wants to know.

"What happened?" he asks again, breathing calm enough for him to get both words out at once. He's gasping by the time he's done speaking. Dad rubs his back and holds tight.

John is quiet for a moment, then he says, "We lost you two weeks ago. You went to school and you didn't come back. Do you remember anything?"

Sam strains, thinks hard. He remembers going to school in the same clothes he's wearing now, except they weren't so ragged and he had shoes on his feet. He remembers collecting his things from his locker before stepping outside at the end of the day, then nothing. There's a great, big gaping hole between then and now.

"Nothing," Sam answers.

"It's okay," John says, hand brushing over the top of Sam's head. "We got you back, that's what matters."

"But why - " he's coughing again but this time it's worse. So much worse. His chest is stuttering, mouth stretching open, trying to pull in air. But he keeps heaving, and blood spatters all over his knees, much thicker and darker than it was before. His dad is there, speaking, but Sam can barely hear him over the sound of his own coughing. Sam thinks, _I'm going to die_.

There's a brief moment when he notices everything slipping away around him, it tilts and clouds with grey. Then, it's just black.

* * *

The air is cool, his body is warm. Music is playing, the usual, the kind Sam puts up with. He peels his eyes open and his vision is bleary, eyelids sandy and heavy. He's lying in the back seat of the Impala, cheek squashed against the leather bench. He's wrapped in all three blankets they keep in the trunk. His chest hurts but his breaths are blissfully free.

Someone in the front shifts and his dad glances at him from the driver's seat. A weight lifts from his face and he smiles.

"How're you feeling?" he asks.

Sam opens his mouth, then licks his lips. They taste salty and metallic, the same flavour on his tongue.

"Um. Okay. I think," he says. His voice is wrecked, shredded to pieces.

"You'll be alright," Dad says.

Sam peels himself off the seat, arms shaking under his weight. He manages to get himself upright and leaning back, blankets up around his shoulders. Slumped in the passenger seat is Dean, head hanging back, a line of drool on his chin, snoring softly. There's a shadow of scuff around his brother's jaw that wasn't there the last time he saw him. Sam looks around, focuses on the last thing he remembers.

"What happened to me?" he asks.

His dad turns back to face forward and starts the engine. They're parked on the side of the road, nothing but trees for miles on the right, fields on the left. 

"Someone took you," John says. "And they didn't like it when we took you back. Decided that if they couldn't have you, no one could. Dean took care of it. They aren't getting their hands on another kid again."

Sam frowns. His brain is still moving a minute too slow, like wading through mud, and he's trying to figure out what his dad is saying.

John says. "Don't worry about it. It's over now. You'll be okay."

Sam pulls the blankets to one side. He's not wearing the filthy clothes he was wearing before, he's been re-dressed in pyjamas. He tugs back his sleeve and finds a cluster of bruises from his wrists up to his shoulders, oval and purple. Fingerprints on his skin.

He looks up at the back of his dad's head, notices him sneaking glances in the rear view mirror.

John drives.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam sits and listens. The soft rush of water spraying and pattering on the other side of the bathroom door, the accompanied half-audible noise of Dean's out-of-tune singing. The rhythmic swell of cars whooshing by the window. The aimless whistle of birdsong, just a cluster of notes in no particular order that still manages to sound like music.

Then, the heavy, gutted growl of a car. It smooths into a big-cat's purr and cuts out. The sharp scrape of doors in need of oiling. Footsteps. A key in the lock.

Sam's breaths pick up, every nerve in his body stands to attention, his heart beats frantically. A single message in his mind is flashing like a neon sign. _Run._

He scrambles to his feet, nearly tripping in his hurry, eyes darting about for an exit. The windows don't open wide enough for him to fit through, he tugs hard but it only opens a crack. The only way out is through the front door. The lock clicks and Sam breaks out into a sweat.

His eyes latch onto the silver glint of a knife at the table, he lunges for it and grips it white-knuckled in his hand, and he presses himself against the wall, right next to the door.

It opens, the pink wooden panel covering him. Sam doesn't hesitate before he springs forward with a cry, knife flying down towards the intruder.

He yelps, feels tears in his eyes because _no no this can't be happening_ as someone grabs his arm and expertly blocks the attack. Sam's grip on the knife goes limp when a swift hand smacks his forearm. A foot to the back of his leg knocks his balance off and he goes tumbling down.

Sam tries to brace himself for the impact of the fall, but there is none. Strong hands hold him securely and guide him until he's lying back on the bed.

"Sam? Sammy!"

Sam blinks and swallows. His dad is hovering right over him, breathless, face pinched with worry. The room is coming back into focus now, the sounds of Dean shutting off the shower, the cars flying by outside, the birds continuing their song.

"Sam, are you with me?"

It's like waking up. Between full consciousness and being asleep, there's a state of nothing. Neither being asleep nor awake, just lingering somewhere between, in a place where nothing exists and anything can happen. Sam forces his way back to the surface and sucks in a deep breath.

He stares at his dad. He lists what he remembers.

Leaving school one day and coughing up blood two weeks later with a gap in between. A week between then and now filled mostly with Sam sleeping and feeling like warmed-over roadkill. He woke up this morning and Dean went into the shower and their dad went to buy breakfast and…

Did that really happen?

Sam focuses. Bedsheets under his back; his shirt has ridden up a little and he can feel the thin, softness of the blankets under his skin. His feet are bare and freezing cold. His face is wet and warm. His dad's hands are firm and gentle and they feel _real_.

"Sammy?" he says. "What happened?"

"I thought – "

Sam tries to speak but his voice cracks and refuses to go on. His throat has been aching and raw this past week from coughing up so much blood. Dean burned the hex bag, but Sam was still in pain after. He still can't talk above a regular volume and he whispers most of the time.

"Okay," John says, like Sam actually gave him an answer. He's alarmingly delicate as he eases Sam to sit up. Sam feels dizzy, the room tilts and takes a moment to focus once he's vertical. The motel room door is still open. A brown paper bag is discarded on the floor, sugared donuts tumbled out of its confines, trailing sugar in their wake. Paper cups of coffee and tea are spilled and soaking into the orange carpet.

"I'm sorry," Sam says automatically, because he knows that food shouldn't be wasted.

"Don't worry about it, kiddo," his dad says, pulling the motel blanket around Sam's shoulders.

The bathroom door opens and Dean comes striding out with a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair is damp and spiked in every direction. He comes to a halt when he sees Sam and John, and the knife on the floor beside the remains of their breakfast.

"What's going on?" he asks, already moving forwards. He places a hand on Sam's shoulder, eyes wandering towards John. The two of them exchange looks, pinched expressions and worried glances at Sam.

Sam realises he's trembling all over, he pulls the blanket tighter around his body.

"You okay?" Dean asks hesitantly.

Sam nods jerkily. He opens his mouth to speak but fresh tears come spilling down his cheeks. "I don't know what happened. I'm sorry," he rasps.

No one speaks for a moment. A minute that seems to drag into hours. A stifling silence. Sam feels aching under the weight of their eyes.

John begins to clean up the mess on the carpet, salvaging what he can: two donuts and half a cup of tea (lemon and honey for Sam's throat). He hands the cup over and Sam takes tentative sips. The liquid is warm, no longer hot, and he wonders how much time has passed. He thinks back, struggles to remember how long they've been at this motel. He's not entirely sure what day it is.

He blinks and finds himself in the same place, but Dean is dressed now and Dad is making coffee in the motel room's crappy kitchenette. Sam forces himself to stand up, he needs to be present, he can't let himself slip away like he's made a habit of recently.

Dean hovers, hand out and ready. Sam glances down, his skin is pale but his bruises are healing. The last traces of what happened, the only clues he had left.

Sam looks at the clock. It's not even 11am yet, but Sam isn't entirely sure when he woke up that morning. Dean's hair is still wet and that floods Sam with more relief than it should. He makes his way over to the table and sits down in one of the chairs, tearing one of the donuts in half and then tearing it into even smaller chunks. He puts a piece in his mouth, lets it soak on his tongue.

Cold, sugary-sweet, bland and spongey, close to the sell-by date.

No one is talking about the fact that Sam just tried to gut their dad with a hunting knife, or the fact that he's more out of reality than in it, or about what happened to him in those two weeks. Sam isn't surprised. His family have never been much for talking when it comes to emotions and trauma. And Sam suspects that's what this is.

He's traumatised. By what? He hasn't got a clue. He needs to know, that empty space in his head is gaping and endless, it might swallow him up. And yet, there's a voice telling him not to approach it, it's better not to know.

" – head up to North Dakota for a while. Bobby's place is the safest I know. I think some time to recover is what we all need."

"How long will this be for?"

"As long as Sam needs to get better."

"You mean that? You're not gonna disappear the second you catch wind of a hunt?"

"Dean," John's scolding tone pulls Sam back to the surface.

Sam finds himself breathless because it's happening _again_. He keeps drifting away to God-knows-where.

_What happened to me? What is happening to me?_

"Sam? Did you hear what we said?" John asks.

Sam shakes his head. There's no point being dishonest. His head is barely on straight these days, thinking is a bigger task than it once was.

"We're going up to Bobby's," Dad says, slow and deliberate like Sam doesn't speak English. "Until you're feeling better."

Feeling better? Sam doesn't have the flu. He's blacking out multiple times per day because someone kidnapped him and did God-knows-what to him for two weeks. This isn't going to go away. This can't be cured with a gallon of orange juice and a week-long rest.

Sam feels himself slipping, his eyes wander. He blinks furiously and snaps himself back to his family's concerned faces.

Sam says, "Okay."

He blinks and he's in the back seat of the Impala, driving by the town's exit sign, with no memory of even getting in the car.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic name change! This was called 'The Collector' and has been renamed as 'Under The Skin'.

It has been four hours and Sam is still awake. He doesn't remember much of the twelve-hour drive to South Dakota, just blinking between states and disappearing again, conversations in the front seat he could barely understand. He came back to himself as they were rolling into the salvage yard, body sluggish, head foggy, parts of him feeling mismatched. He looked in the rear-view mirror just to check that the face he would see was his own.

Every moment is spent waiting. When will he disappear again? How long will he be gone? Will he ever come back?

Sam has been watching the clock above Bobby's fireplace, eyes following each tick of the minute hand.

He's been awake for exactly four hours and six minutes. He can hear birds whistling outside, he can feel the sunshine on his face, he can see Bobby working at his desk, flipping through heavy books, eyes glancing over in Sam's direction every so often. The sound of paper crinkling, pen scratching.

Sam thinks, maybe he's cured.

He blinks once and suddenly the room is dark. Bobby is no longer sitting where he was a moment earlier. Sam blinks again, trying to clear his blurred vision. His eyes are dry and stinging, they begin to water. He's still sitting where he was earlier, settled in the centre of Bobby's lumpy couch. He turns to face the window. It is dark blue and black, stars freckled across the sky, the moon shining and bright.

Sam begins to tremble; his hands are numb on his lap and he tucks them into his sleeves. He looks for the clock, finds it in its place above the fireplace. Four hours have passed.

He's hit with a sudden wave of panic, a chill crawls down his spin and latches onto his skin. Sam jumps to his feet, breaking into a sweat. He stumbles away from the window, out of the room and into the dark and empty hallway.

There's no one there. He's alone. They've left him alone.

"Dean!" he shouts, feeling around in the dark corridor for the stairs. He grips the railing and makes it three steps before he can't go any further. He can't breathe.

The hallway light flicks on and Dean is there, barefoot and panicked. He hurries over to Sam and drops down next to him on the steps, a hand moving over Sam's brow, pushing sweaty hair from his forehead.

"You okay?" Dean asks. Sam pants and tries to focus; Dean's warm hand on his face, hardwood stairs underneath him, the dim hallway light in the corner of his eye, the sound of pots clanging in the kitchen. Sam's chest feels tight like he's been running for hours on end. Dean's hand moves away from his face and glides gently over his back.

"You with me?" he asks. "Try to breathe, okay?"

Sam feels like he's being choked from the inside. He gulps and tries to suck in air. He forces himself to focus. He breathes in and out, in and out. One, two, three, four, five. _Stay here, don't go, don't disappear again._

"Sam, are you still with me?" Dean asks again, more urgently. He shakes Sam's shoulder until Sam answers him with a nod. "Thank God," Dean mutters.

Sam swallows and glances around. He feels like he's never been here before; he knows where he is, but it _feels_ foreign. It's like he's in Bobby's house for the first time after only ever seeing it in a photograph. He brings a hand up to his face, fingers sliding over his cheeks, his lips, his eyes. He has the same pointed nose, the same fringe of brown hair.

"What's happening?" Sam finally manages to ask. He's still shaking all over and he stuffs his hands under his thighs to keep them still.

"Dad's figuring it out," Dean says.

Sam shakes his head, frustrated. "I keep – something's _wrong_ with me. I'm blacking out and, and you and Dad just tell me not to think about it, to forget about it. I'm. I don't know what's wrong with me, Dean. Please. Please, just tell me what happened to me. I go missing for two weeks and I don't remember any of it, and now time keeps jumping and, and I-I'm scared that next time I won't come back."

He's breathless when he's finished speaking and Dean's hand returns to his shoulder, fingers squeezing gently.

"Sammy, Dad's sorting this out," Dean says. "You know Dad, he can fix anything. You'll be okay."

Sam shakes his head. Dean isn't getting it. His face is hot and his cheeks are wet, he wonders how long he's been crying.

"Why won't you tell me what happened to me?" Sam demands. "Where was I for two weeks?"

Dean stares at him, brows pinched worriedly. "We already told you, Sam. Remember?"

"No," Sam admits. He clamps his teeth together to keep from sobbing and wipes his tears away with his sleeve. He's fifteen years old; too old to cry.

"We've talked about it twice already," Dean says softly. "We explained it back at the hotel, then again in the car on the way here. You didn't come home from school one day and we thought maybe you were at the library, but then it passed closing hours and you still weren't back. It was your Latin teacher who did it, we only realised once we heard he hadn't shown up for work. He was a witch."

"Was?"

Dean glances down. "I did what I had to do," he says quietly. He clears his throat. "Me and Dad found you in the next state over. The guy had a family cabin and he'd taken you there. It had been two weeks once we figured it all out. We get there and he's got you in some kind of trance, you didn't even seem to see us. We destroyed his altar and you seemed to snap out of it, but he made a run for it. Then, you started spewing your guts all over the place so I went after him."

Sam swallows. His throat doesn't hurt much anymore, his voice is barely hoarse now. "I remember the spewing my guts part."

"Yeah, the bastard had a hex bag prepped the whole time in case he got caught. He said he didn't want us to have you. We didn't deserve you, apparently. Psycho dickbag. So, I ran after him and Dad got you back to the car. I burned the hex bag and the guy got what he deserved. The end."

Sam frowns. "It's not the end. Something's still wrong."

Dean pastes on a smile. "And Dad is fixing it. it'll be fine, Sammy. Don't think about it, okay?"

Sam sighs. This is Dean's way of dealing with seriously shitty situations; force a smile and pretend it's not as bad as it really is. The truth of the statement is that their dad has no clue how to fix it and Dean is actually really terrified.

"Is it a curse?" Sam asks.

Dean's smile drops. "We don't know," he admits. "Dad's looking into your Latin teacher, trying to figure out more about him. It's a bit more difficult since the dude isn't around for us to interrogate. And Bobby's looking up spells and curses."

"And you?" Sam asks. "What's your job?"

Dean smiles. An honest, bright grin. "I get to watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother," he says, punching Sam gently in the arm. Sam finds himself smiling. "Come on, kiddo. You must be hungry. Bobby made – "

Sam's already gone.

* * *

He comes back gasping for breath. He's in the living room again, sitting in the same place on the couch as he was earlier. The TV is on and there's a weight beside him. It shifts and groans tiredly. Sam squints in the darkness, the room flashes in the television's static light. Sam finds the clock. It's a few minutes past midnight.

"Dean," Sam whispers, leaning over to nudge the lump beside him. Dean jerks, fingers curling around the hilt of the knife strapped to his belt. He frowns and blinks tiredly. The moment his eyes land on Sam it's like he's been doused in freezing water. He's up on his feet, flicking on the lamp, reaching over to push Sam's hair out of his eyes.

"Sammy," he says, sighing with relief. "Are you with me for real?"

"I didn't know I was gone," Sam whispers. He glances down to where his shaking hands sit on his lap. "I was on the stairs with you and… then I was here."

"You're okay," Dean says forcefully, returning the knife to its place on his belt. "You're gonna be okay. Dad's close to figuring this out, okay?"

Sam looks up. "Dad called?"

Dean quickly looks away. "Not yet. But he will soon, I'm sure. He'll figure this out."

Dean's inability to look Sam in the eye says otherwise. Sam can feel it, pieces of him are crumbling away. Soon there won't be any of him left.

He swallows and realises how dry his mouth is. Dean must be watching closely because he heads into the kitchen and returns with a glass of water. He waits as Sam downs half of the glass.

"You must be hungry," he says.

"Starving," Sam admits. Dean takes Sam's arm and pulls him to his feet. Sam lets himself be led into the kitchen and guided to sit in one of the kitchen chairs. He frowns under the fluorescent lights.

"Where's Bobby?" Sam asks. He watches Dean spread peanut butter expertly across a slice of bread. He pauses halfway through chopping a banana into chunks.

"He went to get something," Dean says. He shrugs. "A book or something, I'm not exactly sure."

"Is it something to fix me?"

Dean turns around, a plate full of sandwich in his hand. He half-smiles, eyes too tired to make a real effort. "Yeah, something to fix you. It's going to be fine, Sammy."

He sets the plate down in front of Sam and takes the seat beside him, leaning on his elbows and watching, eyes searching for something Sam isn't sure of.

"You gonna stare at me until I'm finished?" Sam asks around a mouthful of bread and banana.

"Just keeping an eye on you," Dean answers quietly.

Sam pauses and swallows what's in his mouth. He's never seen his brother look this scared, not even when Dean's leg got torn up by a werewolf. Sixty-four stitches and Dean never shed one tear. Not one. Sam feels a pit form in his gut as he realises this must be a lot worse than he'd thought.

"No one has an answer," he says. It's not a question, there's no point dancing around this anymore.

Dean averts his gaze to the table top. "Me, Bobby and Dad are gonna figure it out."

"How do you know, Dean?" Sam demands. "How can you know you'll fix this when you don't even know what's wrong with me."

Dean looks up, his gaze is hard. "Do you trust me, Sammy?"

Sam blinks. "Well, yeah. Of course, I do."

"So, you believe me when I say I can fix this," Dean says. He's leaning close, eyes strained and desperate.

"I believe you," he says. It's not the truth but he knows it's what Dean needs to hear. Dean smiles and pokes Sam playfully in the shoulder. He waits with him while he eats, then stands with him while he brushes his teeth, and he's still there once Sam is in bed.

Maybe Dean is watching to make sure Sam doesn't disappear again.

* * *

The road is long. Sam can barely see much beneath the heavy weight of the fog; it's white and thick and it surrounds him on all sides. Sam follows a road that never seems to end.

It's quiet, nothing for miles but the sound of Sam's feet against the asphalt. He walks and walks until his feet bleed. He thinks, _maybe those footprints will help Dean find me_.

Like a trail of breadcrumbs.

He walks on. There are voices, whispers blowing in the wind.

_Ever think about… running away?_

_Thank you, Sam. I – I love it._

_Do you_ want _to go into the family business, Sam?_

He stops and turns, squinting through the fog. There's no one there.

"Hello?" he calls. His voice bounds away and calls back to him. It's the only answer he receives.

Sam turns back to follow the roads and finds himself no longer alone. There's a figure in the mist, barely a shadow in the distance. Sam picks up into a run.

"Hey," he shouts. "Hey!"

He stumbles to a stop about a meter away. It's a boy, as tall as Sam is, dark hair long enough to curl at the base of his neck. He's facing away, standing frightfully still.

"Hey," Sam says. He steps forward and reaches out hesitantly. "Um. Excuse me?"

The boy doesn't move. He's pale and shivering, despite the thick jacket he's wearing. Sam steps closer, fingers trembling as they find their way to the boy's shoulder.

The boy turns –

* * *

Sam wakes, drenched in his own sweat, sheets tangled in his limbs. He struggles to breath and he squirms, trying to free himself. It's dark and he can barely see a thing, just the soft glow of the half-moon outside.

Someone grabs his arm and he cries out, hands flying blindly towards the threat.

"Calm down, Sam!"

The light flicks on and Sam finds Dean's worried face. He lets himself sink into Dean's arms, clutching his shirt with an iron-tight grip. He pants and sobs until he can't anymore, until he's exhausted himself enough to drift off a little, one eye still open.

He won't go back to sleep. He can't. He can't go back _there_.

The dream is already fading from his memory, but every nerve in his body is alight, every muscle is tight with tension, his heart pounds in his chest.

He's terrified and he isn't entirely sure why.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year to you all! :)

"I don't know."

"You seemed really freaked out. You're sure you don't remember?"

"I'm sure, Dean."

"But – "

" _Dean._ Why would I lie?"

Dean shrugs and stirs his coffee idly. It's not yet 6am and the two of them are drawn tight with fatigue, eyes bloodshot and close to twitching. Neither brother had much sleep the night before. Dean looks up, eyes tracing every inch of Sam's face, searching for whatever answers he thinks might be hiding there. He opens his mouth, the tip of his tongue poised to say something. He presses his lips together and says nothing.

"It's just a bad dream, right?" Sam says, fingertip gliding across a ten-year-old dent in the kitchen table's surface.

"Yeah," Dean answers, although he doesn't sound entirely sure. He hesitates before speaking again, "You really don't remember anything?"

Sam sighs. "I don't remember anything. Which isn't exactly news these days, I'm pretty much turning into a goldfish. I just know that I woke up scared and whatever happened in my dream… it sends a shiver down my spine."

Dean nods, Sam can almost see him mentally filing this information away for later.

Sam clears his throat. "Is Dad coming back soon?"

"Yeah."

"You don't know, do you?"

Dean shrugs. "He hasn't called yet, but he'll be back. Don't worry, Sammy."

"I'm not worried," Sam says, not entirely convincingly. Dean lets the barest smile cross his lips.

Outside, the sun is making its first appearance. The clouds are bleeding a gentle pink, the very tip of the horizon is a soft blue creeping across the indigo sky. It's really beautiful, Sam thinks, if you're into that kind of thing. Well, Sam could take as much beauty as he can get in a world as ugly as this. He thinks, I don't even know what day it is.

"Since you're still hanging out in the real world, maybe you could grab a shower," Dean suggests. The easy smile he wears barely covers the exhausted worry in his eyes.

Sam plays along, pastes on a smile of his own. "What are you trying to say?"

Dean raises his hands. "I'm not saying anything."

Sam has been awake for five hours, the majority of which were spent sobbing like a fucking baby in Dean's arms. Not one of his finest moments, but Dean is likely to keep quiet about it, given their shitty circumstances.

Ten minutes later, Sam is still conscious. So far, today has been blackout free. Standing under the hot, comforting spray of the shower, the water cloaking him in warmth, rinsing away the grit and salt-streaks on his cheek, Sam is stupid enough to hope he's cured.

* * *

His wrists are burning, peeled raw under the ropes coiled tight around his skin, binding his hands behind his back. The wooden pole he's strapped to is thick, the bones in his shoulders creak and his muscles cry, arms forced at a painful angle.

It's dark and the moon is almost full. There are more stars in the sky than he's ever seen before.

Below, people watch with eager faces and hateful sneers.

"Devil fucker!" someone yells. It's the spark that ignites countless more spiteful words.

"Unnatural!"

"Demon!"

"Witch!"

"Burn in Hell!"

He's crying relentlessly, panic clawing at his chest. He searches the crowd and finds no friendly face, no one who might plea his innocence. It wasn't him that did it. It was natural sickness that took the blacksmith's daughter. He had been trying to save her. He'd _tried_.

"Papa," he whispers. The lit torch is creeping closer to the pyre at his feet, the flames licking the tinder. "Papa!"

One spark is all that is needed to ignite the fire. Suddenly, he is burning.

" _Papa!"_

* * *

Sam chokes, smoke gathering in his lungs. When he opens his eyes, the air is clear, sunlight filters through the open window in Bobby Singer's spare bedroom. The man himself is sitting on the edge of the bed. He grabs hold of Sam as he bolts upright, keeps him steady and waits patiently for him to catch his breath.

"Papa…" Sam gasps. The word is only an ember from an already dimming dream. He blinks and every bit of it is snuffed out. He focuses and tries to think, finds nothing but empty blackness, a nightmare long gone.

"Sam?" Bobby says hesitantly.

Sam gulps. "Yeah. I'm here. I'm okay."

Bobby's eyes narrow as he studies the boy. His large, calloused hands are delicate where they grip Sam's arms. Sam focuses. Lumpy mattress, dull wallpaper, warm sun on his neck, a well-worn Metallica shirt clinging to his torso, slightly damp hair clinging to his forehead.

"Oh god. I was in the shower," he realises, arms curling around his stomach self-consciously.

"Naked as a jaybird," Bobby says. He rolls his eyes at Sam's horrified expression. "Believe me, boy, no one was taking a peek. Your brother almost had a heart attack when you zoned out and slipped in the tub."

At that, a sharp ache at the back of his head makes an appearance. He reaches up and finds a tender lump nestled beneath his damp hair.

"Dean got you dried and dressed and put to bed. He's downstairs now, talking to your daddy on the phone."

Sam nods. He thinks a moment. "Bobby?"

"Sam?"

"What does it look like when I… zone out?"

Bobby hesitates. Finally, with an age-toughened hand placed delicately over Sam's, he says, "Like you're sleeping with your eyes open."

"Do you know what's happening to me?"

Bobby, never one to skirt around the truth, cuts straight to it. "I'm trying to figure that one out," he says, and gets to his feet. "I'll grab you something to eat. You must be starved."

Sam shrugs, not feeling particularly hungry. He stares at his bare feet, wiggles his toes, and tries again to remember. He saw something while he was zoned out. It was frightening and painful. He can't recall much more than that.

Bobby pauses in the doorway. "Sam, when you woke up the first thing you said was 'Papa'."

Sam blinks. "I did?"

"You did. I've never heard you or Dean call your dad 'Papa'."

"I've never called him that before," Sam says, shrugging.

Bobby frowns. "Any idea what it means?"

"Not a clue, sir," Sam replies honestly. "Maybe it was just a dream."

* * *

By the time Dean makes it upstairs to tell Sam that their dad is on his way back, Sam has already disappeared to wherever he goes, eyes deader than a stranded fish, mouth hanging half-open. About an hour later, Sam is still doing his mannequin impression and Dean is wiping drool off the kid's chin.

He tries his best to stay up and keep an eye on him, but the clock ticks by and the sun dips down below the horizon. One second, Dean is flicking through an old motor magazine he found downstairs, the next moment he's blinking himself awake and it's 2am.

This must be what Sam feels like. This momentary confusion Dean is feeling, not really knowing where or when he is, it sends him off kilter. His mouth tastes thick with saliva and he stumbles towards the bathroom to spit into the sink. He brushes his teeth and relieves himself and it's only when he flicks on the spare bedroom light that he realises the room is empty.

Sam is gone.

He doesn't wake up Bobby, mostly forgets about him altogether. The only thing on his mind is _Sam_. Sam, who is not in any of the rooms of the house. The front door is open. Dean tugs on his boots and hurries outside, flashlight in hand.

There are endless corridors of rusted cars out here, Sam could be hidden behind any turn. Dean swings the light around, hoping that maybe Sam didn't make it far in the state that he's in, but everything is covered in a thick fog which the light can barely penetrate. He can barely see anything.

"Sam? Sammy, are you out here?" he calls.

One of the upstairs lights comes on and the window opens, Bobby sticks his head out.

"What in the hell are you doing?"

"Sam is out here, Bobby. I can't find him."

Bobby just nods and retreats back inside. A minute later, he comes striding out the front door with a flashlight that's bigger than Dean's and a gun on his belt. "You go left, I'll go right."

They part ways and dash into the fog. Dean keeps calling for Sam and he receives no answer. Later, having checked the whole left side of the lot, he still finds no sign of his brother. Panic begins to really settle in and his mind conjures up a dozen horrific scenarios that Sam might have landed himself in. Kidnapped. Bleeding. Caught by some bloodthirsty freak with a taste for teenaged boys. Wandered into a road –

The _road_.

Dean breaks into a run, weaving blindly in the fog through the yard. He stumbles onto the deserted road, there are no other houses for about a mile either way, and Sam could have wandered in any direction. He could have gone left or right, he could have headed into the fields straight ahead.

Dean takes a breath and follows his gut. He goes left.

He runs for twenty minutes straight, a stitch working its way into his side, his lungs burning and breathless. He stumbles to a stop and squints through the darkness. There's someone up ahead. He hurries on.

"Sam!"

The road is thick with fog. In this murky darkness, a car wouldn't be seen until it was too late. He finds Sam wandering unsteadily, eyes vacant. Dean grabs Sam's upper arm and tries to steer him to the side of the road. As soon as Dean's fingers wrap around the skin of Sam's, he comes alive. He jerks and scrambles to get away but Dean holds tight and tugs as gently as he can.

"It's okay. It's okay. Let's get you out of the road, huh?"

Sam's eyes are wide and white as a spooked horse's. He pulls as hard as he can away from Dean.

"Papa!" Sam shrieks, voice ringing out into the fog. "Papa! Help me!"

Dean frowns, not loosening his grip. "Sam, calm down!" He tugs hard and Sam stumbles a step in his direction.

" _Papa!_ " Sam is sobbing, his legs fold and he sinks down to the ground. "Papa, please. Help me!"

"Sam, what are you talking about?" Dean asks, breathless and half out of his mind with worry. He drops to his knees and takes Sam's face in his hands, forcing him to look in his direction. Sam does so reluctantly. He gulps and blinks several times. After a moment, he looks around and shivers, finally seeming to realise where he is.

Suddenly, he grabs Dean and yanks him close, hands trembling. He glances around uneasily.

"Don't let them take me, Dean," he whispers urgently, leaning in close, voice strung too tight. "You can't let them take me. One of them is already here but the other doesn't know where I am. Don't let him find me. Don't let them find _each other!"_

"Who? Don't let who find you?"

Sam blinks again and slumps a little. The tension in him drains, leaving him exhausted and confused. He blinks in the dark and looks around again, this time with a fresh pair of eyes.

"Where… where are we?" he asks. He shudders. "It's freezing."

Dean can barely remember how to speak for a moment. He's not entirely sure what just happened.

"Sam?"

"Dean, I don't remember coming outside," Sam says. He's completely trembling now, brows drawn with confusion and fear.

Dean grips him, hard. "Who's coming for you, Sam? Who are _they?"_

Sam shakes his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. Can we go back inside? _Please?"_

Dean sighs deeply, his breath catching onto the cold early morning air and drifting away into the fog. He loosens his fingers and gently pulls Sam up to his feet. Sam's feet are bare and pale white, there are a few droplets of blood visible between the toes.

"Ah shit," Dean hisses, bending down and carefully lifting Sam's foot to get a better look. The sole is scraped and bloody, the heal and ball is almost rubbed raw. Sam winces as if he only just notices the pain.

"Hop on," Dean says, turning his back towards Sam. Sam hesitates for a moment, but he doesn't decline, and he climbs onto Dean's back.

It's a long walk back to Bobby's, especially with the extra weight to carry. His arms are straining after a few minutes and he's tempted to put Sam down for a moment, but it's icy outside and Sam is shivering intensely, now. Dean is just as under-dressed and he wishes desperately that he had something to wrap his brother in.

Headlights pierce the fog and Dean lets out a sigh of relief as Bobby's truck rolls into view. Bobby looks alarmed at the sight of Sam looking dazed and freezing, feet a bloody mess. He hops out of the truck and opens the passenger side door.

"Let's get you warmed up, son," he says softly to Sam. He retrieves a ratty old blanket from the back and spreads it over Sam's legs once he's settled in the front. He closes the door and turns to Dean, voice lowered.

"What happened?"

"He just wandered out here," Dean explains. "He doesn't remember leaving the house."

Bobby nods. "We'll have to keep a closer eye on him."

He turns back to the truck but Dean grabs his arm.

"I think we have a problem. Well, more of a problem," Dean says urgently. "When he snapped out of it he said something. It didn't make sense."

Bobby's eyes narrow. "He didn't mention 'Papa', did he?"

Dean blinks. "How did you know?"

"Happened earlier today. I should have told you."

"It's not just that," Dean insists. "He said a few things, not much of it made any sense, but… it was like talking to more than one person."


	5. Chapter 5

Peanut butter spreads across bread smoother than sea water on sand, the jar was left out of the cupboards overnight and has turned to gloop, running from the knife in a long string. Dean smears it, wipes the remnants on the neck of the jar. He crouches down for a better look in the fridge, finding no sign of jam or jelly, but plenty of beer.

"He's already here."

Sam is so quiet that Dean almost misses it. He turns around and finds Sam in the same place he left him; sitting at the kitchen table in his pyjamas, the same thing he's been wearing for the past two days. He looks pale and ragged, under-eyes framed with deep purple, his hair a mess. His gaze is weary, only half-there.

"What did you say?" Dean asks, ditching the sandwich to take a seat next to his brother. Sam shies away, focuses on staring out the window. Ever since that night he'd wandered onto the road, Sam has become less and less lucid. The blackouts have stopped, or that's how it seemed at first. Now, Dean realises they've just merged with Sam's reality, he's now constantly stuck in a state of confusion. He recognises Dean, but not Bobby. The littlest things frighten him. He often has to ask where he is…

"He's already here," Sam says again. He hasn't made much sense over the past 48 hours, but something about this puts Dean on edge.

"Who's here, Sam?" Dean asks, enunciating each word like Sam's a toddler.

Sam blinks heavily and turns his head, finally looking Dean. Not in the eye, his gaze drifts somewhere over his cheek. He doesn't answer, just smiles softly.

"I'm hungry, Dean," he whispers, leaning close like it's a secret. Dean sighs and nods, getting back to the half-assembled sandwich. He can tell he won't be getting much more out of his brother right now. Sam turns back to stare out the window, humming tunelessly under his breath.

Dean finds the jam at the back of one of Bobby's cupboards, wedged between two cans of chili. It's the exact same jar of jam from the last time Sam and Dean were here a few months ago. He thoroughly inspects its contents before deciding it's safe to eat. He spreads a layer over another slice of bread and wedges them both together, slicing them in half and setting them on a plate in front of Sam.

Sam tears his gaze from the window and stares blankly at the food for a moment. Eventually, he picks up one half and takes a slow bite, taking even more time to chew and swallow.

"How's he?" Bobby asks, stepping softly into the room. Sam glances at him for a moment and apparently decides to ignore him, turning his full attention back to the sandwich.

"Still in goldfish mode," Dean answers. He watches Sam, who is chewing with his mouth slightly open, eyes rolling away, back to the window.

"You think he'll recognise your dad?" Bobby asks. The day before, Dean had left Sam with Bobby for a few minutes while he grabbed a shower, only to come running back into the study with soap in his hair when Sam started screaming bloody murder. He hadn't recognised Bobby. He'd thought Bobby was trying to attack him.

"He remembers me," Dean points out. "He has to remember Dad."

But Dean isn't 100% sure that Sam actually recognises him. He doesn't seem afraid of Dean, in fact, he seems to enjoy following Dean around. It's difficult to tell how much Sam is really processing because he's been mostly quiet, saving his words for sudden outbursts that make little sense.

"We need to fix him," is all Dean says in response to Bobby's silence.

* * *

John comes back at 2am. Sam is sleeping deep, soft snores and one arm pinned under his back that'll be numb by morning. Before going downstairs, Dean gently tilts Sam onto his side and rearranges his arm to rest on his chest.

The sight he meets downstairs isn't an unfamiliar one: Bobby and John arguing.

"You didn't even think to call and check in on your boys?" Bobby hisses. They've stepped in close together with their voices low, trying and failing to be as quiet as possible.

John's jaw visibly clenches. "I talked to Dean three days ago."

"Yeah. After he'd called you dozens of times with no answer."

"I was trying to find answers."

"Wouldn't kill you to pick up your phone now and then, John. Your son is getting worse."

John freezes, and his anger bleeds into worry. "Where is Sam?"

"He's sleeping," Dean cuts in. He hops down the last few steps and joins the other two in the study. John's hand lands firmly on Dean's shoulder and he squeezes.

"We'll fix this," he says.

"We don't have any other option," Dean replies, his voice is unintentionally biting. Maybe he's a little pissed at his dad. "What did you find?"

"Sam's school teacher had a fake name. I traced him back a few decades and the earliest name of his I can find is Jonathon White. That name goes back even further, to the seventeenth century, but I can't be sure it's him."

"But," Dean says, "it's a possibility?"

"Maybe."

"If he was that old, he would have been an experienced witch," Bobby points out. "There's a reason he took Sam in a school full of children, there's a reason he picked him. I don't think this was just an attempt to get revenge on hunters. Magic like this takes time and planning. It takes a lot of skill."

"It's not like we can ask the guy about it," Dean says. "I emptied my clip into his head. I'd do it again, too."

"And Sam remembered none of the two weeks he spent with him?"

"He ain't exactly working with a full bag of marbles, Bobby."

John scrubs a hand over his face, letting out a heavy sigh. Upon closer look, Dean can tell his dad hasn't slept properly in days, there's a shadow of facial hair over his jaw, he looks almost as bad as Sam does these days. Silently, he moves over to the desk and fills the empty glass sitting on the surface with Bobby's best whiskey. He downs it in one go.

"I'll bring that psycho back to life myself if that's what it takes to – "

"Dean."

All three of them turn towards the stairs where Sam is leaning against the railing, his gaze trailing around the room, not quite catching anyone's face. He takes the last three steps slowly, and rather than turning into the study, he trails off down the hall, towards the front door. Dean is quicker than anyone else and manages to catch Sam's elbow before he can grasp the door handle. He spins him around gently and leads him back towards the study.

"You were asking for me, Sammy?" he says, pasting on a smile.

Sam blinks. "I think…"

"Sammy?" John says, voice softer than Dean's ever heard it. He reaches out for his youngest son, but Sam steps back.

"I don't – " he mumbles, looking at his feet. "I don't know him. Dean."

The noise John makes is rough, like he's clearing his throat. A shaky breath. He finds his way back to the whiskey bottle. John Winchester's cure all medicine, apparently. Dean doesn't have the time or energy to deal with that. He gently pulls Sam over to the couch and presses him to sit down.

"What's up, Sammy?"

Sam is still and quiet for a moment. When he looks up to Dean, he looks him in the eyes. When he speaks, his voice is clearer than it has been since all this started.

"I can't hold on anymore, Dean. He's here, he's been here this whole time, but he doesn't _know_. Dean, he doesn't understand. Just don't let him get back to his dad. Promise you won't let him."

Dean exchanges a glance with Bobby, but the man seems as lost as he is. He turns back to Sam.

"I don't understand – "

"His dad's going to _kill_ me, Dean," Sam says. His voice is trembling, almost as hard as his hands. "That's what this was all about. I'm just a – just a body. There's two of us and he's going to get rid of me, then there'll only be him. Promise. Promise you won't let him get back to his dad. _Please_."

Dean's heart his racing in his chest, thundering against his ribs. Sam is terrified, and so is he.

"Who's 'he'?" Dean asks urgently. "Who's trying to kill you? What do you mean there's two of you?"

Sam chooses that exact moment to pass out.

* * *

The road is endless. Nothing but the few dusty steps before him and a thick fog on all sides. It goes on forever, and all Sam can do is walk blindly through the white expanse.

The longer he walks, the more his feet begin to ache, the deeper the pools of red his prints leave behind. He remembers the boy, the same one he's visited each and every time he finds himself here. The same boy who never turns around or shows his face.

Wherever he is, it's cold. The air almost feels wet, it feels like he's sweated through his clothes.

"Dean?" he calls. He waits and listens. All he hears is his own voice echoing away, parroting him quieter and quieter until there's no sound left at all. He tries calling again, and again, and again…

Nothing.

There is nothing.

He keeps walking. He doesn't know how long it's been, but it comes to a point that he needs to stop and rest, he's panting and breathless, aching with a stitch in his side. He drops to his knees and tries to suck in air, shivering in the cold.

Something is moving in the mist. A dark shape in the distance inches closer and close. Sam doesn't know if he should run or not, and if he were to run, where would he run to?

He's so tired.

He finds relief when the shape comes into view. It's a woman. She catches sight of him and tips her head to the side to regard him with interest.

"Hey," she says, as if she were just passing him on the street. She holds herself casually, resting on one leg, hands dipped into her jeans pockets. Her hair is thick and black, her skin is dark and smooth, and despite how young she seems, she looks ageless.

"What are you?" Sam asks.

"The more important question here is you," she counters. "You don't belong here."

"I don't even know where here is."

"You wouldn't," she replies blandly. "I think you've been short-changed, kid. This is the veil. The road between life and death."

That sparks something in Sam's memory. He read a book at Bobby's a long time ago. He doesn't quite remember the title, but it was all about life after death; ghosts, heaven and hell, and the veil. Bobby had told him that half the stuff in that book was likely crap, but Sam hadn't been so sure.

"Am I dead?" Sam dares to ask. He tries to think back to a time he might have died, nothing comes to mind. Last thing he remembers is…

He isn't entirely sure.

"Not yet," the woman answers. "See, I've been doing my rounds, checking that everyone is where they should be. Funny I should find a piece of a living soul in the place of a dead one."

"Please. I don't understand."

"You wouldn't," she tells him dully, turning her attention to her nails. "I'll keep things simple for you, kid. This is the veil, the place where souls stay before they're ready to move on to the next place they need to go. Some souls stay here for a little while, some stay for a long, long time. Spirits with unfinished business, but they aren't ticked off enough to be ghosts. D'you follow?"

Sam nods.

"Well, it seems like you've switched places with a soul in the veil."

Sam finally musters the energy to get back on his feet. "Wait. What?"

"You heard just fine. An untethered soul has switched places with you. It seems like you're still alive, though. Only a part of you is here," she says, gesturing to him.

Sam glances down and almost stumbles over when he realises his arm is transparent.

"I think you're still alive, kid. Good for you. The problem is that you might not be living for much longer. You see, this is old and rare magic I've only ever come across once. An untethered soul has been squashed into your living body, while your soul is still inside. Human bodies aren't meant to hold more than one soul, and now the souls are fighting for dominance. Thing is, if a part of you is already here, you must be losing the fight. Tough luck, kid."

She turns on her heel and begins to walk away. Sam sprints after her.

"Wait!"

She pauses and turns to look at him impatiently.

"You're, like, death. Right?" Sam ventures.

She shrugs. "Not quite."

"But you know about this stuff. It's your job, you said as much."

She doesn't reply, just watches him in the same way an owl regards a mouse.

"There must be rules or something. Like, what's dead stays dead. I'm still alive, you said that. Shouldn't you help me get back to my body and bring that other soul back here?"

The woman almost seems like she's smiling. "All I care about is maintaining the balance. I need one soul in the veil and one tethered to that living body of yours. I just don't care which is which. One dead and one alive, that's balance. Sorry that you drew the short straw, kid."

She turns and walks away, quickly swallowed up in the mist. Sam runs after her, calls for her, but it's no use. She's already gone.

* * *

When he wakes, he expects to be burning. Instead, he finds himself tucked under a thick wool blanket, warm sunlight resting on his face, soft voices talking nearby. It could have been a dream. A terrible, horrible dream. And yet, it felt so very real. He had felt his skin blister and melt, he heard his hair sizzle from his scalp.

He quickly raises his arms and finds that the flesh is smooth and unmarred.

And he might have thought it was a dream, but then he sees where he is. It's a house, much grander than any he's ever been in. But it is a strange house. Beside him stands a long, thin contraption with a large floral hood. He peers underneath and finds a small orb of glass. He taps it a few times, trying to figure out what exactly its function may be.

Then, he notices a string hanging from the neck of it. He tugs on it and the orb fills with light. He falls back, landing with a thud on the carpet. This is not like any magic he's ever seen. He stares at the thing. It does nothing more than emit a soft glow.

He climbs back to his feet and approaches it carefully. It just stands there. He leans over and peers under the hood again. The light is unlike any he's ever seen on earth. It does not flicker or spark like fire does. It is bright and still, like the sun. He reaches up to touch it… and, yes, it is as hot as any flame.

He sticks his singed fingers in his mouth too cool them.

When a set of doors open and three men appear, he finds himself frozen in place, too befuddled to even think of running. They are all grown men, although two are much older than the third. The first thing he thinks when he looks at them is that they are dressed in the most peculiar way. The second thing he thinks is that they seem… happy to see him.

"Thank God," the youngest says, he strides over and wraps his arms around him. "Sammy, are you okay?"

He blinks at them, forcing himself out of the man's arms and few steps back. He has no idea what that last word meant. It was a question, he's sure, he just doesn't know what it means.

He gulps and asks, "Pardon?"

"Are you, like, _with_ us?" the youngest asks.

"Do you know who we are?" the older man with dark hair says.

He doesn't quite grasp the younger man's question, but he understands what the older man is saying.

He replies, "Should I know you?"

All three faces drop. The youngest seems completely devastated.

He almost feels guilty but he's not entirely sure what he has done wrong. No one seems ready to say anything else, so he decides to speak up.

"Firstly, who are you and where am I?" he asks. He steps over to the strange contraption that is still lit with white light. He inspects it a little more, then turns to the three men. "Secondly, what on God's good earth is this?"

They all stare at him, mouths hanging open.

Again, the youngest is the first to speak. "That's a lamp, Sammy," he says, enunciating each word.

He stares at the three of them in turn. They must be foreign, but they don't look like natives. "I have never seen a lamp like this before," he says, tugging on the metal chain. The light flicks on and off as he does. "Fascinating. How does it work?"

"Sam," the dark-haired man says. He is about to say more but he's quickly cut off. This is third time they've said this, he decides to correct them.

"My name is William, not Sam. Now, pray pardon me, what is happening?"


End file.
